Wavecrest Poetry Reading. Written during, revised twice.

"What use have I for nostalgia?" she said, and dressed in black to mark the occaision. She tried one more time, tried to empty her mind of four years in a city replete with old men, when the doors all swung open. The children had grown. She stood like one stunted by nightmares and wind, by coffee and streetlamps, the unpublished memoirs, the dimness of desktops. Then, standing, she asked, "What do I mean to them," found she was the face of an old love remembered, of hatred grown friendly, of children grown wise, of coffee and streetlamps bound up in black leather, of distance and timing, of age in disguise.